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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24735112">Leaving Absaroka County</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masterpiece_of_turkey_cleverness/pseuds/Masterpiece_of_turkey_cleverness'>Masterpiece_of_turkey_cleverness</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Speight Bingo 2020 [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Longmire (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>But Jeff wouldn't, Gen, I know First Nations is preferred over Native Americans, Jeff is not politically correct</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:14:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,136</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24735112</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masterpiece_of_turkey_cleverness/pseuds/Masterpiece_of_turkey_cleverness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff gets the hell out of Dodge while the getting's good.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Speight Bingo 2020 [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1781773</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Speight Bingo</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Leaving Absaroka County</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is for Speight Bingo, for the square, 'On a motorcycle.'</p>
<p>Jeff is canonically politically incorrect; sorry if his thoughts/terms offend.  The author knows better, but is writing it from his perspective.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jeff stumbled down the back stairs, trying to move so fast his limbs wouldn’t cooperate.  He didn’t trust that sheriff as far as he could spit, and, despite being in a motorcycle gang (okay, <i>hanging out with</i> a motorcycle gang, he couldn’t spit very far.  </p>
<p>A nice-looking older woman sitting behind a desk peered at him as he finally got to the bottom of the stairs.  “Wallet and keys?” she guessed.  </p>
<p>“Please,” and he was already breathing hard, but he forced himself to slow down and smile at the woman.  None of this was her fault.  “Do you, uh, know a quick way to get out to the bar where we were all picked up at?  A bus, maybe?”</p>
<p>She was (slowly, goddamn it) looking through some bags, checking the IDs in them against his face.  “Sorry, we ain’t got busses or anything else out here.  You’ll have to hitch.”  Finally, FINALLY she looked back down at the wallet and passed it across the table to him instead of putting it back in the bag.  His keys followed.  </p>
<p>“Thanks,” he said as he picked them up, but he was internally cursing.  He knew the sheriff wouldn’t keep his ‘friends’ overnight, which didn’t give him much of a head start...especially if he was going to have to hitch all the way back out to the bar!  And all because the sheriff had wanted to know if some Indian had been playing with them last night.  Who cares?  </p>
<p>Jeff quickly stuffed his wallet and keys back in his pockets.  “Uh, what direction to the route that bar’s on?” he asked her.  </p>
<p>She gave him a sympathetic look and pointed a finger.  He gave her another of his patented stunning smiles.  “Thanks!”  </p>
<p>At least this wouldn’t go on his record, he thought as he exited the police station.  He was an ad exec from Connecticut, of all places, and was having what most people would call a mid-life crisis during an extended, month-long vacation he’d been pressured to take from the agency after his most recent ad campaign hadn’t been particularly well-received.  Fucking political correctness!</p>
<p>He sighed when he got down to the sidewalk, looked around, and realized that there really was no bus station in this tiny town--not even Greyhound would bother stopping here.  So, with a sigh, he began to hoof it.  Mentally, he reminded himself that if he went past a store or a gas station, he should buy some water.  The combination of high altitude and the fact that it was summer here dehydrated you fast, much faster than he would have believed back in Connecticut.  </p>
<p>Thankfully, a few blocks further down, there <i>was</i> a combination grocery/feed store.  Jeff went in, found some large water bottles he felt he could carry, and took them up to the counter.  He paid for them, and got a couple of plastic bags to hold them in.  </p>
<p>After that, he set off walking again, hoping against hope that he could walk faster than the rest of the gang.  This was unlikely, as all of them were at least a head taller than him and thus had a longer stride.  However, he didn’t dare push himself and get heat stroke or something and end up dead before they even reached him.  </p>
<p>Jeff was a couple of miles down the road when an old, battered pickup truck whose color had long since faded to light teal from a bright green pulled up next to him, windows rolled down.  Fuck him if it wasn’t another honest-to-God Indian driving.  “Where you going?” the Indian asked.  </p>
<p>Jeff gave the man the name of the bar.  “My bike’s there,” he explained.  </p>
<p>“Well.  I can take you most of the way.  Hop in,” the Indian said in a measured tone.  “My name is Henry Standing-Bear.”  </p>
<p>Jeff opened the door and clambered up into the cab.  Unfortunately, his mouth took over before his brain could stop him.  “Wow! You really are a real Indian!  Can you say, ‘How Now Brown Cow?’”</p>
<p>Henry made it clear with a Look that he already wished he hadn’t picked Jeff up.  “We prefer to be called Native Americans.  Or Cheyanne.  And no, I will not say that.  Will you say, ‘I am stealing your land and in return I am giving you blankets laced with smallpox?’”  </p>
<p>“Awww,” Jeff started, and then his brain finally engaged.  “Uh...shit.  I’m sorry, man.  I didn’t mean it like that.  I’m from out East and I’ve never met In--ah, Native Americans before.”  </p>
<p>“Well, now you have,” Henry replied.  He still looked as if he was already regretting pulling over.</p>
<p>Jeff managed to stay quiet for maybe two minutes.  “That sheriff of yours is a complete bastard,” he said, figuring that that would smooth matters over.  </p>
<p>It didn’t.  In fact, he got another Look, one which actually made the back of his neck itch.  “Sheriff Walter Longmire is my best friend,” Henry informed him.  </p>
<p>“Fuck!  I’m sorry!  But he busted up a poker game I was in when <i>I was winning,</i>” Jeff explained.  “Then he took us to jail and he picked me out and said he’d tell the others that I’d snitched if I didn’t tell him what he wanted to know.”</p>
<p>To Jeff’s surprise, Henry Standing Bear threw back his head and laughed.  “That does sound like Walt.  Let me guess, he let you go--no charges--and threatened to sic the others on you if you didn’t get out of town quick?”</p>
<p>Jeff, now mildly annoyed, folded his arms across his chest.  “Yeah,” he admitted.  </p>
<p>The Ind--the Native American--kept laughing for a while, which pissed Jeff off even further...though he couldn’t exactly express it unless he wanted to be dumped by the side of the road.  Eventually, the man quieted, and let the silence stretch on for a while.  “I will drive you all the way to your bike,” he said finally.  “Walt will owe me a beer.”  </p>
<p>“Thanks, man,” Jeff said, trying to keep his tone from sounding begrudging.  After all, he <i>did</i> want to get out of town before Tiny and the others caught up with him.  </p>
<p>“And you will have an adventure to tell your friends,” Henry told him.  </p>
<p>“I suppose,” Jeff agreed.  Thankfully, the ride to the dive bar was fairly short, and, as Hank had promised, he delivered Jeff right to his bike and even waited for him to start it before pulling away.  “Thank you!” Jeff called, giving him a wave--he felt much better now that he was back on his motorcycle and securing his helmet.  He decided, after a few minutes’ thought, to head toward Yellowstone--he’d never been, so why not?  He doubted the bikers would follow him there.  </p>
<p>And that was how Jeff left Absaroka County.</p>
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